


Getting Hammered (But Not Like That!)

by TheDarkMetalLady



Series: Four Heroes Walk Into a Bar... [4]
Category: Gloryhammer (Band)
Genre: Crack, Funny, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:08:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22102348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkMetalLady/pseuds/TheDarkMetalLady
Summary: Even the Dark Sorcerer needs a drink from time to time.
Series: Four Heroes Walk Into a Bar... [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1537972
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Getting Hammered (But Not Like That!)

**Author's Note:**

> Requested by Fuchswinter.
> 
> I do not own the Gloryhammer characters. Please note that this story is about the _characters represented by the band_ and **not** about the band members themselves.

It was a wonderfully evil day. 

The sun wasn’t out, the skies were completely overcast and there was a thunderstorm over the kingdom of Fife. Things couldn’t be any better, in Zargothrax’s opinion, and so he deigned that it was the perfect occasion to head out to a local bar in disguise and enjoy a few drinks before getting back to making plans for taking over the kingdom. Even evil wizards needed their time to be drunk; after all, some of the best ideas come along when not sober. That was how Zargothrax had gotten the idea of using the Goblin King’s crystal key. (And it would have worked, too, had the key not been stolen while he had been on his way to the portal to hell. Damn the McFifes!)

He sauntered into the bar confidently, ordering himself a drink and casting a spell on the bartender to make them forget to charge him. (Normally, he would have made the bartender swear their loyalty to him and surrender their soul, but that required effort, and he wasn’t here to do effortful things.) While the bartender was making his drink, he looked around the room, trying to find a good spot to sit. The storm meant that, unfortunately, the bar was full of people looking to escape the rain, but Zargothrax couldn’t care less. If necessary, he’d atomize someone and erase the memories of anyone who saw and then take the now-empty seat. 

Then, he spotted it. There was a single open spot, next to a shady bastard in a hood and two warriors sitting across, their backs facing Zargothrax. Excellent. He wouldn’t need to waste energy after all. 

Grabbing his drink, he walked over and confidently plopped down, drinking from his mug and managing to not spill a drop as he moved. He lowered his mug and looked at the warriors sitting across from him at the table, lips pulled into a tight evil smirk as he thought up ideas of how he’d use these mortals for his own amusement tonight… 

And then he quickly lifted his mug back up to hide his expression and also down the rest of his drink, mentally sending an order for the bartender to make him another. Even when he finished drinking, he kept his head low, using the mug to hide. 

Across from him, directly across from him, was Angus McFife XIII himself. 

It had been pure fate that the pathetic, idiotic mortal had been engaged in conversation with the insufferable Hootsman and had not noticed the Dark Sorcerer’s presence. Zargothrax cursed his own lack of foresight to check who he’d be sitting with. He had came to the bar with the intention of getting hammered, but not like this! Not literally! 

The bartender walked over and placed down another drink in front of Zargothrax, as well as one in front of the small, foolish, naive moron that the mortals regarded as their prince. Zargothrax immediately grabbed his new drink and began to drink that as the bartender walked away with the empty mugs. He watched from behind his mug as his mortal enemy reached for his own drink, and…

“A weak drink for a weakling mortal.”

Okay, perhaps the alcohol was already starting to affect him a bit. 

Angus’s head snapped to the side almost comically as he turned to look at the stranger, gaze becoming a glare as he realized who had taken Ser Proletius’s seat across from him. Vividly fierce green met brilliantly glowing red. 

“Zargothrax.”

“Angus McFife.”

Zargothrax slammed his drink against the table angrily, the liquid inside of it sloshing around, not spilling a drop. Angus did the same, except his sloshed around and spilled a bit onto his hand. He ignored it, though, too focused on glaring. 

Next to the mortal prince, a rather drunk Hootsman looked at the two sworn enemies in confusion, not understanding what was going on. He tilted his head in confusion, then looked across the table and at the hooded person seated across from him. “Ralathor?”

The hermit in question sighed and downed his entire mug, followed by the Hootsman’s. 

The Hootsman seemed to take that as a challenge and stole Angus’s mug and downed it. Then, he ripped Zargothrax’s mug from the mage’s grip. (After all, Zargothrax was too busy glaring to drink it anyways.) He downed that, too. 

Angus was the first one to break the silence of the staredown.

“Why are you here?”

“Contrary to what you may believe, I’m not here to waste my strength on you,” Zargothrax said, trying to remain cordial despite speaking through gritted teeth. He wasn’t here to fight, he reminded himself. “I’m here for a drink or few.” He wordlessly summoned the bartender over to bring another drink. Fine, two drinks. May the mortal fool recognize the generous peace offering; he won’t be making a similar one ever again. 

“Like I’m supposed to believe that,” Angus commented. 

“You wouldn’t dare attack a fellow warrior in a bar,” Zargothrax said. 

“You? A warrior?”

“Of the mind.” Zargothrax smirked. Maybe he’d have some fun messing with mortals anyways. “Unless you plan to tell me that such a thing isn’t possible, and that your local hermit here isn’t a warrior either?” 

The insufferably talkative mortal shut his mouth. Excellent. So he was capable of learning the meaning of silence for a moment after all. 

The bartender brought over the two drinks, setting down one in front of Zargothrax and the other in front of Angus before walking away. Zargothrax confidently picked up his own mug, drinking a bit but also putting an anti-Hootsman hex onto it. He smirked against his mug while watching the confusion of the mortal sitting across from him. He lowered his mug just a bit to address the mortal.

“Consider us to be at a truce in here. Now, plan to have a real drink?”

Angus locked gazes with Zargothrax as he reached for his mug and then proceeded to down the whole thing in one go. “Bring it on, Frosty the Iceman.”

Zargothrax growled and downed the remainder of his own mug. 

(Ralathor figured he should probably intervene, but between this and dealing with a drunk Hootsman, this was more entertaining.)

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta-read.


End file.
